


The Universal

by violet_strange



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Complete, M/M, Sherstrade, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2018-07-28 09:39:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7635331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violet_strange/pseuds/violet_strange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The problem of love has been solved because the day you meet the person who is right for you, the brightest light in a field of stars, a mark will appear on your wrist and will tie you to your soulmate for eternity.</p>
<p>It's best not to think about the science behind this, or about the times it doesn't quite work. Greg Lestrade spends a lot of time thinking about these things, the mark on his wrist a constant reminder of the one who simply didn't appear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. un coup de foudre

DS Greg Lestrade’s first arrest that day was an occasional drug dealer who’d got stabby after seeing his girl walk into the Essex with a stranger. “Gave him the Full English, you could say,” Greg’s guv said. Greg did his best to appreciate the attempt at wit, and when the drug dealer broke for the door, Greg was there with the handcuffs.

 His second arrest was a career criminal, a proper villain who obediently waited to be handcuffed while uniforms swarmed his import/export business.

The third was an accident. After a busy day, a few minutes at a crime scene, followed by hours of forms and reports, he went to Croydon to meet his sister for a late supper.

“I needed socks,” he explained after arriving two hours late.

“Anyone but you, I’d think a story about reuniting an old lady with her handbag was a load of bollocks,” his sister said. At first glance, Gillian Lestrade didn’t resemble her younger brother in the slightest, but the relationship was there in the colour of her eyes and the frequency and warmth of her smile.

“Right in the middle of the shopping centre, mums and kids, grannies, and I am not joking, a troupe of acrobats.”

“The troupe of acrobats was why everyone was there, right? You look a bit knackered—should I make up the spare?”

“Thanks. When does Daniel get back?”

“Not ‘til Friday. Such a bore having him always away.”

“I thought, well, soulmates, shouldn’t you be fine with whatever he wants to do?”

“It’s about connection, not about being a sort of doormat.” She rolled back her left sleeve, exposing the turtle-shaped soulmark, identical to the one swimming across the inside of her husband’s left wrist.

“You never did tell me why the turtle,” Greg said.

Gillian flicked at her soulmark. “Ow. This had better wake him up. What time is it in Moscow?”

“Past one. You could text, _missing you lots of love_ , that kind of thing.”

“You’ll understand one day when you…” She reached over and pushed back her brother’s sleeve. “Greg! You didn’t say—how long?”

“What are you—” Greg stared blankly at the dark shape on the inside of his wrist. It hadn’t been there during his mid-morning coffee.

“Who is she? Or he? When were you going to tell me? It’s so exciting, everyone was a bit worried, not worried exactly, but you are almost thirty and you hadn’t met, well, I wasn’t supposed to tell you this, but mum was going to buy you one of those soulmark cruises for your next birthday.”

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know? It’s like a bolt of lightning when it happens.”

“It must have happened today. I don’t know when.”

“Oh, Greg.” She placed her hand over her brother’s wrist. “Hello, mysterious new sister. Or brother, that’s fine too.” She tried not to giggle at his dismay. “Do you know, I think the mark looks a bit like a handcuff. Maybe it’s someone you arrested today—were any of them particularly good-looking? Maybe one day you’ll both look back and laugh at how your first words were y _er fookin’ nicked, mate_.”

“We don’t really say that,” Greg protested, not very truthfully. His heart sank as he reviewed his day’s arrests. All three of them were taken, soulmarked as it were.

“Let’s make a SOULnet profile for you. This is exciting—I never did get to make one for myself, Daniel and I’d known each other for so long. First, we need a really good close up of your soulmark for the matching algorithm and then we need a really flattering photo for your profile.”

Twenty minutes later, all photos uploaded, Greg started filling in his profile. Occupation? Metropolitan Police, he typed. He deleted it. Detective Sergeant at Scotland Yard. That was better. His profile would only be seen by the person whose soulmark matched his, so he didn’t have to worry as much about privacy as usual. SOULnet claimed to have a 98% accuracy rate, which meant he was free to give honest answers to questions such as, _your favourite virtue_ and _what do you appreciate the most in your friends?_

He dozed off in front of the screen. _0 views_. At his desk, _0 views_. At the pub, _0 views_. At work again, at the cinema, on the train, on Gillian’s sofa, confused.

“Most people go on SOULnet within a day,” Greg said. “I looked it up.”

“Could be an accident, no, you’d feel it. Could be… Greg, that troupe of acrobats, where were they from?”

Greg moaned and sank deeper into the sofa. _0 views. 0 views. 0 views._

_1 view._

Only a first name and location, but everything felt sharper and clearer now that he knew the mark on someone else’s wrist mirrored his own.


	2. "it's my duty to be attentive"

“It’s your round, Detective Inspector Lestrade.” Newly-promoted DI Tobias Gregson waggled an admonishing finger at newly-promoted DI Greg Lestrade.

Under normal circumstances this would have been an invitation to punch Toby in the face, but a sense of occasion, along with the lager, wee drams, and tequila shots, had put Greg in a beneficent mood. He almost felt bad about all the times he’d described Toby as ‘hair like a knob of butter with brains to match’. Almost.

He slowly, cautiously tried to put his legs to their intended use: walking. Over the course of the celebration, the pub had changed from sedate Victorian oak to a funfair complete with dodgems and spinning teacups. Greg successfully perambulated across the bar, drinks in hand, toasting Toby’s promotion, toasting his own. A few rounds later, the mood turned from celebratory to confidential.

“You’d think she’d understand,” Toby said, displaying an enormous star on his wrist. “I’m a star. Can’t expect a star to be alone. You don’t hear Altair complaining about how Vega is too close to Deneb.”

“She’s a star as well, right?”

“What I’m saying is what is the point of a soulmate unless they believe you even when you’re lying?”

“At least you have someone to lie to,” Greg said, rolling up his sleeve. “William from London has viewed my SOULnet profile exactly four times over the past five years and responded to my messages exactly none.”

“Hard luck, mate. How many messages have you sent?”

“Around five, six. Seven.”

“You should send a message saying you got promoted.” Toby watched Greg struggle with the SOULnet mobile app. “Nice soulmark though, fits the job. Maybe you’re married to your work.”

 

Greg’s hangover the next day was a creature of exquisite brutality. A brass band marched from ear to ear, sprites whacked golf clubs against his eyeballs, and his internal organs appeared to have gone on strike.

“Someone here for you, sir. Says he’s here about the Richards case, says it’s important.”

Greg nodded weakly at the ridiculously healthy detective constable. She handed him a card. _Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective._ Greg ran his thumb along the edge, fresh from a home printer.

A young man entered his office. Tall, with a dark mop of hair and a light tan. His eyes were almost grey as they took in the details of Greg’s office, but sky blue when he met Greg’s gaze and smiled.

He set down a bottle of water on the desk. “We’d better take care of that hangover first.” He emptied a packet of something fizzy, added a few drops of something dark, and then shook the bottle vigorously. “This works quickly, inspector, and it’s perfectly safe. Woke up with a bit of a hangover myself, but it’s all gone now.”

Greg took the bottle gratefully. His desire to rid himself of the cacophony in his skull was stronger than his fear of poison. The drink burned his throat and raced through his body, giving the lazy cells a good kicking.

“What can I do for you?” Greg’s voice was back on the job.

The young man stashed his leftover powders and oils in his jacket. He leaned back in the chair, watching Greg with some satisfaction.

“The Richards case. Scotland Yard, in one of its periodical attempts at cleverness, has given its newest DI a problem: Why would a right-handed man slit his throat with his left hand. The answer?”

“It’s murder, that’s what I think.”

“Wrong. Let’s review the facts of the case, shall we? Sebastian Richards, obscure 1970s singer-songwriter, finds new fame when 'His Sunflower Girl' is used in an advert. At the time, Richards is living in a bedsit near King’s Cross. He hears his song on the telly, hears a cover of it when he’s buying tea, hears someone whistling the melody on a train platform. Does this translate into cheque? No, it does not, and Richards wants to know why.”

“Right. Richards’ old manager was seen going into the house the night he was killed. We think—”

“Stop saying ‘think’ when you’re not doing anything of the sort. The manager went into the house that night because Richards had called him. You might ask, why did he run, but that’s more to do with personality than guilt. Some people run, some people call 999. The signs of a struggle, the badly forged suicide note, all props in a play.”

Greg ran through the facts. “So it was suicide after all.”

“Richards signed away the rights to his music long ago. He knew he wasn’t going to get any royalties, so he wanted to make certain his former manager was denied them as well. Suicide staged as a murder.”

“This is a good story, but have you got any proof?”

The young man pulled out a plastic bag containing a few sheets of paper.

“Suicide note practice. Practicing his manager’s handwriting so he could forge his own suicide note.”

“How did you get this?”

“Consider it a gift, Inspector.”

Greg stashed the young man’s business card in his wallet. _Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective._ He hoped the story checked out—it was an ugly tale, but it would set a man free.

 

The pub had returned to a placid nineteenth century dream. Peaceful, empty but for an elderly couple starting their evening drunk and a confused policeman. Greg had left a message telling Sherlock Holmes he was right and inviting him for a drink, but there was no reply.

“Good evening, Inspector.” A voice like polished silk, sharp suit, neurotic mouth. Greg immediately knew this couldn’t be good.

“Who are you?”

“My name isn’t important. There is a little matter requiring some assistance, which could be beneficial for us both.”

“Are you selling holiday cottages? Even if I had the time, no weekends in the country for me.”

“No, Inspector, this is a personal matter.”

“Jones bought one of those cottages. As it turned out, the toilets were outside, no indoor plumbing at all, can you believe it?”

“This afternoon my brother visited your office. He is attempting to set himself up as a ‘consulting detective’. As unlikely as it sounds, he has had some success in the past.”

“What’s the problem then, Mr Holmes?” Greg enjoyed seeing Sherlock’s brother flinch.

He handed Greg a file. “This is an account of his recent adventures in Florida.”

Crime reports, eyewitness statements, newspaper clippings, photographs, crumpled papers bearing the names of unlikely motels.

“This is… this is bloody amazing. This is like a Hiaasen novel. Did Sherlock really do all this?”

“Tell me, is it usual for detectives to go home and curl up with detective fiction?”

Greg closed the file. “Are you asking me to find your brother a job? Civilians play a limited role—”

“You will need him more than he needs you. When you do see fit to engage his services, I would appreciate it if you could keep me up to date on his activities and…” Sherlock’s brother was silent. Greg finished his drink, waited.

“I would like to know how he’s doing, his state of mind. It’s important. Until he finds someone, ideally his soulmate, his wellbeing is my concern.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Have you thought about sending him on one of those cruises? Meet hundreds of people a day, one is bound to be the The One.”

“I think one would be more likely to find norovirus than love and believe me, Inspector. No one wants to be trapped on a boat with my brother.”

 

Sherlock had the ground floor ‘garden flat’, a mouldering series of rooms with windows that opened to a patch of dead grass. Greg tried to find a place to sit, but it was hopeless.

“Mycroft wants you to spy on me? His name is Mycroft, by the way, don’t know why he was being so mysterious about it. I’ve only got the one brother, I think.”

“Should I? Is it better for you if I do give him some information, not that you’ll be coming to Scotland Yard again, but if you did.”

“You can do what you like. The problem with Mycroft is that he was the one… when I was at college, there were some problems… you have no idea how boring it is. A-levels, I could sit A-levels in my sleep and everyone was obsessing constantly and it was so boring I thought my brain would explode from boredom, so I tried a little recreational escapism. Fortunately or unfortunately, Mycroft was the one who found me. I was sent to rehab, I ran away from rehab.” Sherlock hesitated. “What Mycroft doesn’t understand is that after I ran away from rehab, something changed. I changed. He doesn’t see everything I’ve done since then, he sees a teenager overdosing in a squat.”

“He sees a brother he loves and wants to protect.”

To Greg’s surprise, Sherlock’s eyes flashed sky blue. “That is a gorgeous line, Lestrade. You must excel at playing the good cop."

 

Greg never planned to call in Sherlock’s consulting detective services; however, there was never enough time, never enough uniforms, to cover everything, so the information Sherlock provided helped him make the best of what he had, or that’s what he told himself. Sherlock grumbled about unimaginative murderers and threw insults around like confetti, but Greg felt better whenever he saw a familiar dark mop of hair on the other side of the crime scene tape. It felt right.


	3. "you who never arrived in my arms"

“Unless you’re here with a case, Lestrade, go away!”

Greg cautiously pushed open the door to the flat. It opened without knocking anything over, a good sign. Sherlock’s old flat was crowded with papers and books and experiments fermenting in the corners, but had been short on actual furniture. He walked in a little further. Sherlock was curled on the sofa, back to the room, still in a dressing gown, while the man who had been hanging around the crime scene earlier was tapping away at a laptop.

Greg was unnerved by the cosy domesticity of the scene. The man was younger than Greg, but not young as such, and he had a rigid posture and neat style of dress that suggested a military background.

The man looked up from his laptop.

“We never did meet properly, I’m Sherlock’s new flatmate, John. John Watson.” They shook hands.

“How did you two—“

“Boring,” Sherlock mumbled into the sofa cushion.

“We can do that conversation some other time,” Greg said. “Sherlock! You were supposed to be at my office bright and early to give a statement about last night. My car, two minutes.”

Sherlock sat up, yawning and stretching as if from a hundred year sleep. “Fine, let’s go.”

“Put some clothing on, Sherlock. It’s a criminal investigation, not an excuse for fancy dress.”

Sherlock slowly made his way towards the bedroom, stopping for a mug and a newspaper along the way.

“I gather he’s always like that,” John said.

“Always. And I mean always. Thank god this investigation is passing to someone else. How did you two end up flatmates?” Greg felt queasy. Maybe it had finally happened for Sherlock the way it happened for most people—the meeting, the connection, the eradicable mark on the wrist, the shared bed, the companionable silences and the private languages. Without realising it, Greg had believed that he and Sherlock were alike and what happened for other people wasn’t going to happen for them because Greg’s soulmate had rejected him, and Sherlock was Sherlock.

“I’ve been writing this blog, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to write about what happened yesterday.”

“What’s your blog about?”

“Right now? Nothing.”

“Really, it’s about nothing.” Sherlock, shirt crisp and white enough to intimidate, waited by the door. “Are you ready, Lestrade? I’m not going to clear my calendar for Scotland Yard.”

“If it’s like a newspaper, it should be fine, no names, no details. Keep what’s confidential confidential.” Lestrade told John before following Sherlock out the door. “I should’ve told your flatmate to call me another name. DI Wolf, that’s a good one.”

“DI Bat. As in, think’s he’s clever, but is blind as. Even at mate’s rates, I can’t afford central London, so John. You were working up the nerve to ask if congratulations were in order; it’s annoying.”

They drove in silence, twenty minutes that felt like hours. Sherlock leaned against the window seemingly fascinated by the traffic backing up next to the park, but Greg thought he could see an uneasiness in Sherlock’s reflection. However, there was no sign of anything but impenetrable confidence as Sherlock marched into Scotland Yard, so it must have been a trick of the light. The uneasiness belonged to Greg alone.

 

John’s blog proved to be a good way of keeping track of Sherlock, even if John did refuse to use ‘DI Wolf’ or any of the case titles Greg thoughtfully suggested.

“Look at this, Donovan. He’s decided to call it ‘The Speckled Blonde’. That’s a little boring, isn’t it?  ‘Terror by Night’, now that’s a title. Maybe he didn’t get my text about it.”

“A unique title is better for search results,” Sally said, a response designed to conceal how much she wanted to throw the computer out the window whenever John’s blog was the screen. Nothing against John, John was fine, everything was fine except that Sherlock continued to be an arse and a liar and her boss lit up like Christmas whenever Sherlock entered the room. No matter what he said, it was clear he revelled in the garbled streams of lucky guesses and complete bollocks that poured out of Sherlock’s mouth. One day Sherlock was going to do something, something bad, and the light would go out of Greg’s eyes.

 

The interrogation room had been painted and repainted over the years as theories about which colours would stimulate confessions changed. Cream flaked away to mint green and sky blue in a straight line where the chairs scraped the wall, while other marks revealed more deliberate violence. Years of cigarettes, sweat, and rage had been trapped in the paint, creating a smell that both prisoners and police carried with them throughout the day. Moriarty took a deep breath and smiled.

“Shouldn’t you have saved your handcuffs for someone special,” Moriarty said. He stared at Greg’s left wrist for a moment, then gave a cheerful wink.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Greg said.

“It’s not nice to tell lies, Inspector. I, on the other hand, know what I’m talking about and who I’m talking about.” Moriarty’s voice dropped, a soft invitation. “Why don’t you let your sergeant turn off that recording so you and I can have a little chat in private?”

Greg didn’t answer. He nodded at Sally, indicating that it was time for her to launch into full Bad Cop mode. As she delivered a frighteningly detailed précis of what Moriarty could expect over the next few weeks, Greg reviewed the file, not daring to let himself think about what Moriarty might have been suggesting.

Over the weeks that followed, Moriarty kept his silence. He would comment on the weather and occasionally express mild surprise or amusement over the idea that he could be connected to bank frauds or assassinations. This lasted until the day of the trial.

Moriarty’s solicitor, vagueness with a double-barrelled name, greeted him while two women fussed over Moriarty’s suit, brushing away lint, smoothing away wrinkles.

Handmaidens, Greg thought.

“My client has something to say to you. He is aware that anything said in this room is a matter of public record.” There was no trace of approval or disapproval in the solicitor’s voice.

Moriarty moved his head slightly, allowing adjustments to the collar of his shirt. “It was a gift from me to you, one beautiful, dramatically perfect arrest. You’ll never forget it, will you? The king in the Tower.” Moriarty’s eyes were an empty universe, dark matter expanding and obliterating all light.

“It’s a bit queer, isn’t it? One always says _handcuffs_ , there’s no such thing as a _handcuff_. One is completely useless on its own. Useless. So you can consider the scene at the Tower a gift and an apology because you are going to live. You are going to live and live and live and he will not.”

Greg waited for more, but Moriarty turned away, oblivious to Greg’s presence.

Sherlock appeared in Greg’s office without being asked, an echo of the day they’d met.

“What do you think he meant?” Sherlock asked.

“It was a threat,” Greg said.

“Obviously,” Sherlock leaned back in the chair, watching Greg with some concern. “I don’t like it. He’s trying to scare you, Lestrade.”

“Obviously,” Greg said, his best imitation of Sherlock’s tone.

Was it a threat against the one carried the same soulmark? Greg found it difficult to worry about a shadow. That was what William from London had become to him—a shadow, lost from the start. He’d stopped looking at unfamiliar faces and wondering, and his idle thoughts were not of the one who was supposed to transform his life because his mind was full of the job, his family and friends, and Sherlock.

“I have a sister. Should I tell her to join her husband in Vancouver until this whole Moriarty business is settled?”

“It wouldn’t hurt.”

Greg booked his sister’s flight, listened to her outraged descriptions of what she’d do to Moriarty if he dared try anything, found a place for her cat, and drove her to Heathrow.

Later, after Sherlock jumped, he picked her up from Heathrow, stopped for her cat, and listened to her tearful descriptions of what she wished she’d done to Moriarty. She cried because Greg couldn’t.

Greg chain smoked, drove too fast, and didn’t cry. He solved a triple murder, watched the sun rise from his office window, and didn’t cry. He wasn’t going to cry for Sherlock and didn’t cry for Sherlock until the day he returned.

Instinct overcoming all good sense, he wrapped his arms around Sherlock and cried.


	4. "the error bred in the bone"

“Lestrade, stop moaning. You should’ve known I wasn’t in that kind of trouble.” Sherlock closed his copy of _How to Write an Unforgettable Best Man Speech_ and picked up an index card. “This is a serious issue. John told me that wedding speeches generally contain funny stories, so I thought I could tell you some funny stories in order to see how an average-to-blokey audience might react.”

“I was in the middle of something." Greg took a deep breath, almost giddy with a mixture of relief and anger.

Sherlock picked up another card. "How about an amusing anecdote about the time John thought Jim Moriarty was his soulmate?”

Greg turned his mobile back on and it started to beep angrily.

“Sherlock, I would love to hear that story, but anything to do with Moriarty doesn’t belong in your speech. What does belong in your speech is some waffle about how even without looking at their wrists, you can see they’re soulmates because of the happiness in their eyes. That’s what the crowd wants to hear.”

“That is good, and happens to be true.” Sherlock wrote down the comment.

“As soon as I take this, you can tell me about why John thought Moriarty was his soulmate.”

“His soulmark appeared on the night he was kidnapped.”

Greg turned his mobile to silent. “When was John kidnapped?” he asked, casually.

“He’s been kidnapped quite a few times, but it always works out in the end—”

“Good. What are you going to do when it doesn’t work out?”

“It doesn’t matter. John is getting married, and he’s not likely to be kidnapped while playing Scrabble with his better half. Scrabble is not a euphemism, by the way. Mary has the uncanny ability to set down calyx or zax when you least expect it.” Sherlock turned back to his notes. “Don’t say it, Lestrade.”

“How do you know—”

“You were going to say something silly about friendship.” Sherlock's voice was steady, and he kept his eyes fixed on his notecards.

Greg tried to decipher the jumble of letters and numbers marked in the corners. JHW was John, the rest were dates, possibly places, postcodes. He imagined Sherlock sitting at his desk, not only carefully recording his cases, but tracking everything.

“What I was going to say was you can call Anderson if you miss having someone to follow you around and post rubbish case summaries on the internet,” Greg said, his voice hard, but hiding a greater kindness.

Greg did his best to calm the troubled waters stirred up by his overreaction to Sherlock’s texts. He might have faced more censure, except he picked up a photogenic triple murder: a footballer, another footballer, and an heiress. He solved it quickly, no need for Sherlock, and the tabloids covered him with praise even as they lamented the moral outrages he had uncovered. It restored Greg’s position as one who was heading places.

He was tapped for a leadership course, one more step up the ladder. It kept Greg busy, but not too busy to notice that Sherlock had stopped dropping by his office unannounced and wasn’t answering texts. True, there were no clever cases, no puzzles for Sherlock, but Greg had believed that their relationship had progressed beyond the utilitarian. If Sherlock felt that he could stop by Greg’s office because he wanted to, then Greg could return the favour. He sent a text as he left his office, adequate warning.

_On my way over – GL_

_This time next year you'll be calling me commander – GL_

He hit ‘send’ and prepared to be mocked for his premature gloating. The door to 221b was unlocked. The living room felt empty without Sherlock even though Sherlock’s chair was occupied by a different Holmes.

Mycroft's eyes flickered slightly, an acknowledgement of Greg's presence. “Sherlock isn’t here. He’s staying at his girlfriend’s flat in Islington.” The word _girlfriend_ dripped with contempt. He held out a file.

“Ever heard of the paperless office?” Greg flipped through the pages. “This is Mary’s friend. She was one of the bridesmaids. Do you object to her personally, or is it the cliché you don't care for, best man and maid of honour?”

“If you will read the material I gave you, you will see that her past behaviour raises some concerns, as well as the more pressing issue of her current employment. She works directly for Charles Augustus Magnussen, you’ve heard of him, I can assume.”

“I’ve heard he’s your friend,” Greg said.

Charles Augustus Magnussen, the founder of SOULnet, the world’s most popular soulmark networking service, and the ruler of a media empire. More than one career had stalled under tabloid headlines, but it was rumoured that the darkest crimes were buried as a favour and Magnussen expected all favours to be repaid with interest. Mycroft’s careful refusal to react told Greg everything he needed to know about that relationship.

“You, more than anyone, should put a stop to any investigation into Magnussen that Sherlock might be planning.”

“I’m not Sherlock’s minder, and I’m not your bagman. Sort it out yourself.”

Slamming the door on Mycroft Holmes was always satisfying.

Later:

_Hi. Talked to Mycroft. Said you have a love nest in north London please confirm - GL_

_That was a joke. Where are you? – GL_

The next day:

_Where are you? – GL_

The next week:

_Got a forgery trust me you’ll like it. Where are you? - GL_

Every day, unsent:

_Where are you? - GL_

“Sir, I thought you might want to see these before they’re entered into the system.” The uniformed PC was young, eager, and already learning the wrong lessons.

Photographs, not CCTV, thank god. Greg stared at Sherlock’s unshaven face, the hood almost obscuring his eyes, yet not enough to prevent identification.

“Everything related to a case is entered into the computer. _Everything_. Watch out if anyone tells you different,” Greg said. Favours always had to be repaid.

_Where are you? Call me. - GL_

He told himself that Sherlock always came back. If he could come back from the dead, then he would come back from a filthy squat littered with dirty needles and smeared with grotesque stains.

Sherlock can come back from this, he told himself. Sherlock will come back from this, he told himself as he pulled up the most recent map of suspected drug activity.

The house where the photographs were taken was empty, the broken door suggesting recent violence. Greg entered cautiously, if anything happened, his unofficial visit would be difficult to explain. Floorboards creaked and glass crunched underfoot as he made his way from room to room.

“Looks like the filth,” a raspy voice called out from the shadows.

“Who’s there? Identify yourself.”

“He left you a note, said give it to what’s-his-name.” The skinny man who stepped forward was perfect casting for a petty criminal in a Hendon training video. He held out a crumpled scrap of paper.

GO AWAY, LESTRADE

“Who are you? If you’re selling him drugs, I will make you very sorry—”

“That’s intimidation, that is.” He handed Greg another note.

IT’S FOR A CASE

“His doctor friend came for him, he don’t need you,” the man smirked, and Greg was torn between wanting to get him in handcuffs and wanting to break his other arm. If Sherlock was with John, at least Sherlock was safe.

“Don’t ever sell drugs to him again,” Greg said.

“No worries, I don’t want your lot interfering with my trade,” the man said, fading back into the shadows.

Sherlock’s mobile went straight to voice mail, and the reports he heard from John and Molly were not reassuring. Greg's concern for Sherlock felt almost physical, like carrying stones in his pockets as he made his way through his workday. In need of reassurance, he drove out to see his sister.

“Thank god you’re here,” Gillian said, lowering her voice. “Daniel’s been clomping around the flat all day and it’s driving me mad.”

“Even if I couldn’t hear that, which I can, at this range I’d feel it,” Daniel said. “Good of you to play chauffer tonight, Greg.”

His brother-in-law had the kind of red hair that most people thought went with a temper; instead, he was the mild counterpoint to the Lestrade tendency toward shouting when angry. Greg had once asked his sister how their relationship worked with so much travel. “Fierce independence and phone sex,” she’d said, a brief answer that gave more information than Greg had wanted.

Gillian tried to access the cinema web site on her mobile. “What should we see tonight? There’s one that’s like _Jurassic Park_ , but with Vikings, and the one with the superheroes in New York. Greg?”

He started to answer her, but was slammed with a wave of pain. It moved through him, burning his veins with ice that was sharper than any fire. Pain was everywhere and everything. For a moment he saw it, the bullet tearing flesh, and it carried him into a darkness where he was left empty and alone, desperate, crawling toward a faint glimmer of light. The world broke and reformed as Greg opened his eyes.

He heard his sister thanking the paramedics, _sympathetic trauma_ they had said. A psychosomatic echo of the pain experienced by the one who wore the matching soulmark. Nothing physical for Greg to worry about.

“They said the best thing to do was to make you a cup of tea and get you another blanket,” Gillian said.

Greg tried to reassure his sister, take away the anxiety in her eyes, but his throat felt like it couldn’t work.

“When Daniel broke his foot, I felt like I’d suddenly stepped on a hot knife. I screamed a little and dropped all my shopping, bag full of oranges rolling around Sainsbury’s.”

“Bloody inconsiderate,” Greg managed to say.

“It was. I told Daniel that if he ever gets in another accident, I’ll kill him.”

“Bloody inconvenient, the way it works.”

“They say suffering shared is suffering halved, but we don’t know, do we? It could be suffering multiplied. Your mystery man—”

“He’s dead. I felt it.”

“I’m sorry.” Gillian squeezed her brother's hand.

Greg wanted to laugh. “He’s better now. It’s something he does, die and then come back, almost blasphemous really. I guess it’s lucky I only _felt_ like I was dying.”

“Poets in the old days used to say that true soulmates died together. That’s a bit excessive, don’t you think?”

“Now I do, although, it would make my job easier. With two dead bodies, it’d be easier to get a witness to a time of death, and it would immediately eliminate the obvious suspect.”

“You must be feeling better if you’re thinking about work,” Gillian said, trying not make her feelings about her brother’s so-called soulmate obvious.

There was a message from John, then Mycroft, and then two more from John. Greg parked at the hospital, claimed official business, and tried to find Sherlock.

“I’m sorry, you can’t go in there.”

“First of all, police business. More importantly,” Greg pushed back his left sleeve and took a leap of faith. “Check his wrist, you’ll see I’m family.”

Less than a minute later, he was standing next to Sherlock’s bed.

“Look at you, almost the colour of the sheet,” Greg said. The regular beep of the heart rate monitors reassured Greg as his own heart beat in time with Sherlock’s. He moved a chair next to Sherlock’s bed, took his hand, and there it was. It was too dark to see if the lines were an exact match, but every pain-edged breath told him they would be. William from London.

“There’s no point in asking you _why_ when you’re like this,” Greg said, willing Sherlock to hear. “I should be angry—I am angry. You’re there with a bullet in your lungs and for what.”

Greg tried to stay awake as the hours passed and the room brightened into day. Sherlock wasn’t allowed visitors, but they came anyway. First, Mary stopped by, and Greg sent her away to comfort John with the message that Sherlock would live.

The police were next. Toby Gregson slouched into the room, gloomily resigned to picking up a case that required cooperation from Sherlock Holmes.

“He’s going to live, isn’t he? I’ve cleared all of my murders this year, and that tosser is not going to be my first unsolved.” He stopped at the look on Greg’s face. “You’ve called him worse.”

Greg placed his left wrist next to Sherlock’s.

“Hard luck, mate,” was all Toby could say.

“Did you see who shot you?” Greg asked after Toby left the room.

Sherlock’s eyelids moved slightly, he opened his mouth, but was silent.

“What is it, Sherlock?” The room brightened.

“Mary,” he finally whispered.

“She was here earlier. Do you want me to call them back?”

Sherlock shook his head, eyes still closed.

“Excuse me.”

Greg immediately recognised the man standing at the door.

Charles Augustus Magnussen adjusted his glasses. “I was speaking with your colleague. I’m afraid I couldn’t see the man who shot me, so I was unable to be of much help. I believe Mr Holmes may have got a look at his face, has he awakened? I would like to thank him for saving my life.”

Greg stood up. He didn’t want Magnussen anywhere near Sherlock.

“I’ll be sure to tell him,” Greg said.

“Please do. Detective Inspector Lestrade.” The hospital lights glinted off his glasses, obscuring his eyes. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you. I feel like I know so much about you.” He cleared his throat theatrically.

“ _Dear William, my name is Greg Lestrade. I don’t know what to say, this is my first time writing something like this. According to your profile, our marks have at least a 98% match. Do you want to meet and compare them?_ ”

It was the message he’d written when he joined SOULnet. Greg willed his face to show no more than mild interest, the policeman’s mask, while his mind raced through the contents of the messages he’d sent William from London. Not many, a handful, some more desperate than others, alcohol or exhaustion taking the keyboard.

“ _Dear William, I’m celebrating my promotion with that twat Toby, but I’d rather be with you. Come and find me_.” Magnussen looked down at Sherlock fondly.

“Those messages were private,” Greg said.

“Private? Privacy ends when you start to type.” Magnussen smiled. “They all use my service to connect, and continue messaging for years, for between soulmates all is shared, all sins confessed. Some I take it upon myself to absolve, while others…”

Magnussen ran his fingers over the mark on Sherlock’s wrist. “Your soulmate wants me to leave before I tell you the name of the woman who shot him.” He leaned over to whisper, too close, his mouth almost touching Sherlock’s ear. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“Get out,” Greg said, keeping his whole body still to hide his rage. Even if there had been nothing aside from friendship between himself and Sherlock, the threats, the unwanted touch—Greg wanted to throw handcuffs on Magnussen and leave him somewhere dark until time erased his name.

Sherlock was asleep again, retreating into himself for protection.

Even if we fell asleep next to each other, we’d never share the same dreams, Greg thought. He felt his own eyes closing. “I’m tired, Sherlock, but now I think some of what I’m feeling is you.” He yawned.

 

Sherlock’s recovery was slow, delayed by his periodic habit of escaping the hospital bed.

“I’m putting a guard on your door, and another one to guard the guard.”

“You’re no fun, Lestrade.” Sherlock sighed deeply. “I’m exhausted, you should go.”      

“You’re exhausted because you’ve been running about London in… how did you get a Costa uniform? Should I be searching under your bed?”

“You still haven’t thanked me for finding ‘Burger Van’ Barker’s lock-up or bringing you a that cappuccino.”

“Yeah, cheers for that.” Greg watched Sherlock settle back into the hospital bed. He looked more alive now. “Sherlock, you’ll be out next week. Are you going back to your flat? You can’t be there alone.”

“It’s fine, Lestrade. I’ll be staying with my parents in the country. Long walks, fresh air, supposedly that’s called for in my condition.”

Greg tried to imagine Sherlock’s parents. Most likely tall, beyond that, his imagination failed.

“Whatever you’re thinking, they’re not like that,” Sherlock said, a smile beginning at the corner of his mouth.

“I was thinking they’re tall.”

“In that case, you’re correct. A first for DI Lestrade.”

“I learn from the best.”

“Ah, here is where I say _thank you_ , and you smugly inform me that you were referring to the training course you took last year.”

“Good to see you’ve recovered enough for jokes. Now I’m going to make another observation, and I really hope this one is incorrect. You don’t like long walks and you’ve claimed to be allergic to fresh country air. Wait—I know.” Greg opened the map on his phone. “Would your tall parents happen to live near Appledore, unofficial headquarters of SOULnet?”

“Yes.”

Greg hadn’t expected honesty.

“He’s blackmailing my brother, he’s blackmailing countless others, he sees himself, and he is, the power behind countless thrones.” Sherlock paused. “And he’s trying to destroy John’s happiness simply to prove to me that he can.”

“As much as I hate agreeing with Mycroft—”

“I can take him down, Lestrade, and I will.” Sherlock met Greg’s eyes. “It’s a very clever plan. It’s a shame you’re police, otherwise I’d tell you all about it.”

“Is that what I am to you?”

“No.” Sherlock’s voice was firm. He’d had years to practice that refusal. “We’re not doing this now.”

“Sherlock, why—”

“I suppose you saw it when they brought me in. No privacy in these places.”

“I felt it.”

Sherlock was silent.

“I felt you die.” Greg asked the question he’d been holding in his heart for years. “Why?”

“You said, _come and find me_ , and I did, but you didn’t recognise me at all.”

There had been so many cases over the years, surreptitious visits to Sherlock’s flat with his notebook and armfuls of files; demanding telephone calls, emails, texts from crime scenes; apologetic messages from the unlucky desk sergeant on duty when Sherlock was brought in; Sherlock, handsome and distant, absorbed in the details of the topography of London. One of those times had to have been the first—Sherlock standing before him as the universe rearranged itself to bring them together, but it was buried under all of the time that followed.

Greg returned home and waited for Sherlock. Tell me what happened, he would say. Tell me everything, how we met, how we lived, rewrite the time between us into love.


	5. Croydon

He’d been kept waiting for over an hour. Given the high quality batches he’d been cooking before being effectively kidnapped by his brother, he was offended. He hadn’t escaped the benevolent clutches of the ineptly named Sanctuary Abbey House so that he could waste his time hanging about a shopping centre in Croydon. He amused himself by guessing the occupations represented by the shoppers who paraded by him. Office workers all looked alike, bad posture and skin wrinkled by computer screens and discontent, so the challenge was to find the small details, nearly invisible to anyone else, the briefcase, the sales brochure, the expensive watch, anything that would separate the estate agent from the marketing rep. Some were more obvious than others. The man who hadn’t yet become accustomed to his new suit or giant mobile phone was definitely police. He appeared alert as he stood at the edge of a crowd that had gathered around some dancers, but didn’t seem to notice the shell suit who was trying to stealthily liberate an OAP’s wallet only steps away. The policeman looked up, their eyes met, all it took was a slight nod to the left, and the game was on. Coppers and villains, a short chase before an enthusiastic crowd, the villain in handcuffs, one point for Scotland Yard. Before disappearing with his fellow coppers, the policeman caught his eye and gave a cheerful wave of gratitude. He felt it then—a bolt of lightning.

“My connection never did show, and I was back at the rehab centre in time to see Mycroft being coldly furious at them for losing me. If we had met, what would you have thought of me then?”

Five minutes, Mycroft had said. This is merciful considering what Sherlock has done.

Greg could feel the cameras recording every movement and every word. He gently kissed Sherlock’s forehead, an answer to that question and to all the questions that hadn’t been asked.

“I would’ve been happy to meet you,” he said.


End file.
